


Sundays are Hard

by secondsofhappiness



Category: SKAM (Italy)
Genre: M/M, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-27 21:30:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17169737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secondsofhappiness/pseuds/secondsofhappiness
Summary: Future Fic.Sundays can be lovely but sometimes they’re hard.





	Sundays are Hard

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this mid way through the season and I just KNEW Marti would be the most loving, sweet, kind boy when he learned what he was capable of. I’m so pleased I was right 💙

It’s a bad day, Marti can tell.

Nico’s slow to react, eyes a little clouded and he hasn’t laughed properly in days.

They’ve been here before but it never gets easier to see Nico so down, so different. His normally sparkly eyes are downcast and distant; his movements sluggish rather than bright and full of his token brand of infectious energy; he’s not himself.

But he’s _Nico_. He’s still the same person, still the same beautiful weird funny amazing sweet person that plays piano like a dream, leaves thoughtful notes for Marti to find and who planned an indoor picnic one Sunday with string lights and soft pillows.

This is a _typical_ Sunday: empty apartment, lazy hours of nothing but spending time together.

Marti loves Sundays _a lot_ nowadays.

“Ni?”

Standing against the doorframe of Nico’s bedroom, Marti watches his boyfriend shuffle on his bed, hoodie slipping a little from his head. His response is slow but he’s sitting up and it’s a start.

“Yeah?”

Marti smiles. Nico’s curls peek out over his eyes.

He’s _beautiful_.

“You hungry? I could make pasta.”

There’s a siren in the distance and Nico glances at the window, half distracted by the outside world as if it threatens to make its way inside. He’s miles away, so far away that Marti’s words haven’t registered so Marti makes his way over to the bed, sliding into his usual spot to rest his chin on Nico’s shoulder.

That does it. Nico turns to look at him, the light from the bedside lamp making him glow, and Marti smiles. “Do you want some pasta?”

Nico nods a little, his head tipping back onto the wooden headboard. He sighs. “Sorry.”

And it hits Marti deep in his chest. One word and it feels like a million.

“You don’t have to apologise. You know that.”

Nico stares straight ahead and Marti takes the opportunity to reach out, fingers playing with the strings of Nico’s hoodie. He’s warm and comfortable and knows it’s impossible to feel any more in love with someone than he does right now.

Nico’s words snap Marti out of his thoughts. “What kind of pasta?”

Marti smiles slow and presses a fraction closer to Nico’s arm. “Whatever you want.” Nico tips his head towards Marti. His eyes are so wide and searching, locking with Marti’s, pleading in a way Marti can barely stand but he tries and places his hand wide against Nico’s chest.

Nico’s nose lightly grazes his own when he speaks. “Will you make your favourite?” he says and Marti smirks, tucking his chin further into Nico’s shoulder winning him the edges of a smile in return.

_Result_.

“My pasta pesto?” he asks and Nico nods with a sigh. “You know I only make that for people I love.” There’s a flicker in Nico’s eyes and it’s like a dagger to Marti’s chest. It’s a flicker of doubt, of questioning, of panic and everything in between. It doesn’t belong in this room or in the eyes of Niccolò Fares because if there’s one thing he is _never_ allowed to do it’s consider for a second that Marti isn’t overwhelmed by how much he adores him. With purpose, Marti slides his hand from Nico’s chest, up to his neck and into messy curls. He presses their noses together. “How much do you want?”

With that, Nico’s eyes slide closed on a sigh. “All of it,” he whispers and Marti grins wide at the hint of humour in Nico’s voice.

_There he is._

And just because he can, Marti tips his chin up and lets his lips press gently to Nico’s, a kiss so soft and light but Marti’s chest floods with warmth at Nico’s deep sigh, at the fingers that creep up his arm and hold tight to the fabric of his own hoodie.

“I’ll be quick,” Marti says then and slides bit by bit from their bed. He’s just about to reach the door when he hears his name. “Yeah?”

As he turns, the eyes that stare back at him from the bed make his breath stutter in his chest.

“Will you leave the door open?”

And Marti falls deeper, desperately and without a shred of fear.

“Course,” he says with a smile, “I’m right here.”


End file.
